


Bathroom Stalls Are For Lovers

by rosie_berber



Series: I'm Like Oscar the Grouch. I Live in a Trash Can. [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bathroom Sex, Blow Jobs, Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Semi-Public Sex, Shameless Smut, Smut, Thigh sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-06
Updated: 2016-08-06
Packaged: 2018-07-29 15:47:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7690420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosie_berber/pseuds/rosie_berber
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This short and dirty ditty takes place in the same universe as <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/7623466"> Dean wearing short shorts on a bet from Cas</a> and the <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/7653916"> dirty things that follow because of those short shorts</a>. Basically, this fic takes place that night at the Roadhouse during the first part of “Baby,” answering the question that plagued all of our minds: what mistakes did Dean make while Sam was getting freaky in the Impala? And why did Dean so eagerly sing along to Night Moves? (Spoiler alert: because he got laid too!)</p><p>I love you all for encouraging my madness. Enjoy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bathroom Stalls Are For Lovers

       Dean wraps his fingers around the neck of the glass bottle, the tiny little beadlets of condensation a cool contrast to the intense heat within the bar. His throat heaves as he takes one continuous sip, finishing the half-full beer and promptly ordering another. He needs to cool down, clear his mind. He had practically dragged Sammy by the hand to the Impala, eager to hit the road; Amara’s got him restless, so the case is a welcomed distraction. That’s at least part of the truth. Because if Dean is being honest, he’d admit to himself that his cabin fever had a lot more to do with the unexpected, exhilarating, terrifying events of the afternoon: one where he found himself in a very compromising situation with his best friend, screaming the angel’s name while spilling inside of him.

 

       Dean drinks to put the memories of Castiel’s flesh out of focus. He drinks to calm the primal need he feels aching in his bones. He drinks to stop losing himself to thoughts of running his fingers over the roughness of Cas’s complexion, to taste something other than the sweetness of his mouth. Dean drinks so that his mind doesn’t repeat on a loop the angel’s parting words, said over the phone just an hour ago: _just call if you need anything._ Dean drinks to try to stop his fingers from hovering over the familiar contact, he drinks to not hit send. Dean drinks to stop his heart and mouth and other parts of his anatomy from making decisions for him.

 

_“Hello, Dean.”_

_“How quick can you get to Watkins, Colorado?”_

_“I’ll...find a way.”_

 

xxxxx

 

       What Castiel would give to have his wings back at this moment, to be able to flutter away to the dive bar a state away to be seated on a stool next to Dean. Alas, existing as an entity for eons comes with its advantages, one being that Castiel has a rolodex within his mind of creatures with whom he can do the teleportation equivalent of bumming a ride. He summons forth a fairy, the irony lost on him that he was doing so to act on his decidedly homoerotic stirrings. The memory of the day’s proceedings, of soap and sweat and semen, of the soreness he still feels as he shifts his body on the couch, all of it is consuming every thought he has had since Dean and Sam left abruptly for a half-case in Oregon. The fairy appears and with a little quid-pro-quo (she wanted to borrow a few rare books from the Bunker’s library), Castiel finds himself surrendering himself to ethereal travel.

 

xxxxx

  


       Dean knows it’s Castiel’s hand gracing the small of his back before he even turns to see his face. Those long, perfect fingers were one in a million. Dean hopes that Cas accepts his excuse, that it is the _suddenness_ rather than the _purveyor_ of the touch that immediately sends shivers down his spine. The angel, despite strict orders to relax, is still dressed in his suit, disheveled as he might be from his journey. He looks wholly out of place in the seedy watering hole. Not that anyone notices - the bar is nearly vacant, save the two or three regulars drinking silently several stools down.

 

       “Cas, buddy, how the hell did you get here so quickly?” Dean looks at his phone. Only a half hour has passed since the conversation dripping with booty call implication.

 

       “I may not have my wings, but I still have ways to travel quickly, when urgent issues present themselves.”

 

       When Castiel speaks of urgency, Dean can feel his blood bound south, an erection building at the mere sound of Castiel’s voice. _I have an urgent issue I’d like you to attend to,_ Dean thinks, his brain too devoid of oxygen to come up with a more clever entendre.

 

       “You didn’t make a deal with the devil to get here, did you?” For a moment, as he looks at Castiel’s eyes, only thin rings of blue circling the blown black, he actually fears the answer.

 

       “No. I wouldn’t give Crowley the pleasure,” Castiel jokes, delivering a slight squeeze to Dean’s shoulder as he takes the stool beside him, feeling every ounce of stress the hunter is carrying with him in this moment.

 

       Dean returns the touch with his own, gently gripping Castiel just above his knee, swearing he hears a faint whine escape from chapped lips. “Thatta boy.” Lest his intentions be too clear, lest he be perceived to be too aggressive, too forward, Dean reluctantly removes his hand, even though his muscles seem to fight him, wanting to travel up the angel’s leg rather than away from it. “Well, you came all this way. Least I can do is buy you a drink.” Dean gestures towards the bartender, holding up two fingers to double the order.

 

       Two bottles clink together, both men holding their desires in harbour, for the time being. They talk of the upcoming case. They talk of Amara. They talk about the room Castiel can take as his own in the bunker. Thousands of words are exchanged between the two over several hours, but not the few that are pulsing but imprisoned within each of their minds, words of want and need and now.

 

xxxxx

 

       It is that time of  night where all respectable joints would be issuing their last calls. Thankfully, this roadhouse is not one of those places. While the two men have managed to contribute their fair share of glass bottles to the recycling bin out back, neither is at the point where the bartender needs to be issuing ultimatums. Nor is either ready to leave.

 

       The thirty steps from the bar to the bathroom are a sobering experience for Dean. The two had shared a fair number of what could be perceived as flirtatious touches throughout the night: fingers lingering on an arm, foreheads meeting in laughter. But neither seemed ready to admit that their intentions were far more impure. Dean hovers over the sink, splashing the water across his flushed face. _Pull yourself together, Winchester._ His uncertainty eats away at his stomach like an ulcer. _Maybe it was a mistake to ask him to come here. But if you call it a night, he’ll understand._ He lets out one big breath to build up his nerve, to march back out to the bar, to send Castiel back to Lebanon with a hug and a thanks for a great night hanging out. He’s almost ready to act on his resolve when he hears the door swing open, forcefully. An angel on a mission comes barrelling in. As if he could see the panic on Dean’s face, the mere seconds he was away from talking himself out of what he wants, Castiel seizes his chance, his mouth crashing into Dean’s. The hunter stands stunned, but he does not pull away. Castiel wraps his arms around the hunter’s trunk, pushing the pair towards a stall for all the privacy this place would afford.

 

       When the kiss finally breaks, Dean realizes his teeth had been holding onto Castiel’s lip so hard that he has drawn blood, the taste of iron filling both of their mouths. He runs a finger over the small abrasion, softly apologizing for his intensity.

 

 _“Dean Winchester, there is only one way you can hurt me. And it’s by not letting me have you right this instant,”_ Castiel growls into Dean’s ear as his hands begin to palm the very pronounced hardness visible beneath Dean’s denim.

 

       Who was Dean to deny an angel his piece of heaven?

  


xxxxx

 

       Ever filled with reverence, Dean quickly finds Castiel kneeling before him, his hands abruptly pulling at the waistband of Dean’s jeans, not even bothering to deal with buttons or zippers, licking his lips when Dean’s cock is exposed. His fingers pass over every inch of Dean’s hardness before he drags his tongue along each bulging vein. He savours the salty residue at Dean’s tip, pushing his tongue ever so slightly into his slit. And as Castiel takes Dean into his mouth fully for that first glorious suck, Dean mentally kicks himself for almost talking himself out of this bliss.

 

       Dean’s fingers weave through the wilderness of Castiel’s hair as he watches the angel bow his head over and over again, the skin of his nose buried against the bush of Dean’s base. While roadhouse bathrooms do not scream romance, as Dean watches the width of Castiel’s mouth be pushed past its limits by his thickness, he can’t help it but be in awe of its beauty.

 

 _“So fucking good Cas,”_ he mutters between pants, finding himself unconsciously thrusting deeper into the angel’s throat, praising the heavens for his seeming lack of gag reflex. He feels all of his want and need and lust and desire pooling together in his belly, finding himself dangerously close to the edge. His body gives him away - the sheen of his sweat and the frenzy of his breath, for when he can feel himself so close to oblivion, Castiel stops.

 

       Dean moans at the loss of Castiel’s mouth, lips now swollen beyond compare. But he has no time to lodge a protest, because before long, the angel is holding both of Dean’s wrists firmly against brick at the back of the stall, his green eyes taking in the graffiti promising good times written across the wall. _Bet not as good as this_ , he thinks as he finds himself slightly bent forward, feeling Castiel’s electric touch passing through him even though he is denied the pleasure of his face. _“Do not move your hands,”_ the angel commands before letting go, quickly pulling his own pants to the floor, running his hands over Dean’s hipbones before taking his hardness tightly into his grip.  

 

       The weight of Castiel’s body presses down on Dean’s back, his lips gently biting at his earlobes before he speaks. _“You left me alone with my thoughts all day. That was a mistake, Dean. Because, disciplined though I may be, I could not stop myself from thinking about what it would be like to take you in this way.”_ Dean opens his mouth to respond, to ask Castiel about what filthy things he had in mind (all of which seemed like _great_ ideas to Dean in the present moment), but words are not allowed to pass through his lips. Instead, Castiel quickly puts three of those perfect fingers in Dean’s mouth, exploring the inside of Dean’s cheeks, the length of his tongue, coating them for his intended purpose. Dean, to his surprise, more than eagerly complies, sucking on the digits until they are covered in his own saliva.

 

       Castiel pulls his fingers from Dean’s mouth, stroking his too-long neglected cock with the lubrication. He positions himself so that his erection lines up with the crevice of Dean’s thighs right below his ass. He presses his hardness into Dean’s firm legs, plunging into the tight gap over and over again.

 

       Dean struggles to keep his hands firmly planted against the wall, the arousal of Castiel’s power leaving him desperate to meet his own orgasm. And yet, he obliges, as he does not dare to defy the angel’s orders. Thankfully Castiel is merciful, wrapping one hand around Dean’s leaking cock while the other digs its nails into the flesh of Dean’s ass as he thrusts between his legs, over and over again.

 

_“You look so fucking perfect, bent over like this, willing to let me take you however I please. The rebel who is willing to obey. Who knows he needs to obey, that he can’t run from this. You don’t want to run from this, do you Dean?”_

 

       Dean can’t manage to mutter distinct words in response, groaning to affirm Castiel’s accusations. The sound vibrates through his own skin to the angel’s, turning the tension that had possessed his body into a release, a release that pours from Castiel’s body to drip slowly down Dean’s legs. The angel only allows himself a few seconds of solace before again taking to his knees, abruptly turning Dean around, aggressively taking in his swollen length over and over again. The intensity pushes Dean to the brink.

 

_“Fuck Cas, I’m gonna --”_

       Castiel pulls Dean’s cock out of his mouth, his hands working him to completion, forcing Dean to unload one stream after another over the angel’s face. Not given the option to aim, Dean notices that Castiel, eyes wide open through the whole ordeal, receives a little more of Dean than he intended within one of his eyes.

 

       No sooner has Dean lost himself than a voice breaks through the room, belonging to neither of the men who currently find themselves covered in sweat and semen.

 

       “Get a fucking room,” the anonymous baritone voice booms.

 

       The panting recedes, giving its way to laughter and improvised clean-ups and soft reassuring kisses. The two emerge from the bathroom, flushed, but satisfied. They settle their tab and move towards the front door, ready to meet the light of the new day, when Castiel stops Dean, taking his hand into his own.

 

 _“You aren’t allowed to run from this Dean. It might be messy, we might make mistakes. We might want to kill each other at times. But this - this is real. I am yours, fully, wholly, without reservation. Go to Oregon and then come home to me.”_ He kisses the hunter goodbye before heading towards the fairy slumped over a table in the corner.

 

       Dean walks towards the Impala without a night of sleep to his credit, with Castiel’s scent still stuck to his skin. The night wasn’t the stuff of fairy tales, nor perfectly executed pornos. _Mistakes were made._

 

_But Cas? He wasn’t one of them._

**Author's Note:**

> So guys, I really love Dean Winchester. Yes, I know, he’s a fictional character and all. But there are moments on the show where I just want to rush him and give him the biggest hug in the world for being such a grade A dork. One of those moments is in “Baby,” when Dean is trying to convince Sam to go to the Roadhouse with him. He talks about Heather from the Wendigo case and his attempts to hook up with her. He delivers one of my most favourite lines ever.
> 
> “I texted her. She's working a rugaru case in Texas. Actually, she never texted me back. That's not the point.”
> 
> Canonically, I feel like Dean is just the fucking best in that moment, quickly going from being a ladies man to admitting that the apple of his eye didn’t even return his message (her fucking loss). But in my own little sick head? The whole Heather thing is a desperate attempt for him to try to forget how good it felt to be with Cas - to half-heartedly try to hook up with someone else and really not care when it doesn’t pan out.


End file.
